


The Adventure of the Pale Lodger

by waitingtobedistributed



Series: Sherlolly Fun Size [5]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Clueless Sherlock, F/M, Fluff, Molly's a bit clueless too, Sherlolly - Freeform, mollock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-04
Updated: 2016-08-04
Packaged: 2018-07-29 08:55:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,776
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7678075
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/waitingtobedistributed/pseuds/waitingtobedistributed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock always misses something. Always. But to be fair, Molly seems to have missed something too.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Adventure of the Pale Lodger

**Author's Note:**

  * For [likingthistoomuch](https://archiveofourown.org/users/likingthistoomuch/gifts).



> For Gee who inspired this silly little story. She commented in a tumblr post that Sherlock spent a lot of time at Molly's place and this is what my brain did with that.. I'm embarrassed to gift this to her after reading her beautiful work, but hey, it gives me something to aspire to.
> 
> Also dedicated to my fellow shipmates, who are relentlessly upbeat, funny and kind no matter what. Love you all. 
> 
> You know the drill: I own nothing but the mistakes, they're all mine.

 

 

Molly watched the beautiful man that was swirling about her kitchen divest himself of his coat and scarf as she set the table for their supper of fish and chips.

 

Sherlock had burst into her flat 2 minutes earlier, presented her with the paper wrapped take-away – closely followed by a look that said ‘ _you know what to do with it' -_  and then had begun rattling out deductions about her day before she’d even had a chance to draw breath.

 

“ ‘ _Hello Molly, so lovely to see you. Would you mind setting the table while I dance around your kitchen like Magic Mike? Oh, and because I know you like thoughtful conversation and social pleasantries, I am obliged to ask how was your day?’_ ” Hands on hips, she mimicked Sherlock’s imperious tone.

 

He crinkled his nose, plopping gracefully into his seat at the kitchen table, “What in hell’s name is a Magic Mike?”

 

His weary pathologist scowled at him.

 

“Pop culture reference?”

 

“Yes, Sherlock,” Molly slouched down into her own seat next to him, “pop culture reference.”

 

Giving her a sideways disapproving and impatient look, he tore open the paper, picked up one golden chip and blew on it before popping it into his mouth.

 

“Almost forgot,” licking the salt from his fingers and wiping them on the tea-towel he was using as a napkin, he reached inside his suit jacket and fished out a small, folded, slip of paper. “Reward. From that case with the three legged cat and the ruby tiara. The Duchess finally paid up.”

 

Sherlock pushed his offering across the table toward Molly, who looked at it then looked back to the offeree.

 

“It’s a cheque.”

 

“Excellent deduction Molly.” He blew on another too-hot-chip, then stuffed it into his mouth, quickly followed by another: the man could be a bottomless pit when he wasn’t on a case.

 

“For £10,000.”

 

“Right again. You’re on fire today,” he teased.

 

With a heavy sigh, she said, “What do you expect me to do with it?”

 

Through a mouthful of cod, he suggested “Bank it? Isn’t that what one usually does with cheques?” Then muttering not so quietly under his breath, “Not much use to you otherwise.”

 

Molly’s hackles rose. He’d been getting on the frayed end of her last nerve for days, and he was now on the verge of finding out what Molly Hooper looked like when she’d finally had enough.

 

Not only was she providing Bed and bloody Breakfast services to him at least 4 days a week, _and_ providing evening meals most nights when he wasn’t on a case, she was also allowing him to take up half her wardrobe space with his suits and shirts – and for a man who gave a good impression of a tailors dummy, he had a surprising amount of ratty tee-shirts that she was sure even Oxfam would turn their nose up at. 

 

Not to mention that lately she’d been forced to make room in her tiny flat for the growing collection of books and lab equipment that he’d begun depositing on every shelf and flat surface. He had even started replacing her bed linens and towels for the expensive ones he favoured.

 

And now she was supposed to provide secretarial services too?!

 

Uh, hell no.

_No way._

 

It was bad enough he bossed her around in her own lab, treating her like a- like a- _technician_ , but now he was taking over her home too. There was _no way_ she was going to allow the tentacles of his demands creep out even one inch further. There was a line to be draw, in the sand or in her lino, she really didn’t care which.

 

In a determined fashion (or as near to that as she ever came with Sherlock), she slid the cheque back toward him with one finger, “I’m not your P.A., Sherlock. Nor your maid.”

 

“I know that,” he said sitting bolt up right and attentive, responding to her sudden change in disposition with a serious expression of his own. Narrowing his eyes, puzzled, he asked, “It’s not enough? You want more?”

 

“More?” Molly took a deep breath, the man was so infuriatingly confusing, “More what?”

 

“Rent.” He clarified.

 

“Rent?”

 

“Molly, why are you repeating everything that I say?”

 

“Repeating?”

 

“You’re doing it again Molly. Are you feeling alright?” Looking concerned, he peered at her from beneath a furrowed brow. His head bobbed and weaved, over then back, as he attempted to examine her for signs of illness.

 

In exasperation she gritted out, “Stop that. I’m perfectly well, Sherlock.” Closing her eyes, she imagined she was conversing with a three year old for whom English was not a first - or even second – language, calmed herself and started over. “ _Why_ have you given me £10,000 for rent?”

 

“It’s what people who live together do, isn’t it? Share bills and rent expense? £10,000 is about six month’s worth, I should think,” he pushed his plate away and folded his arms over his chest defensively. An annoyed little indented wrinkle had appeared between his eyebrows and he was pouting.

 

“Well yes. It is. But we don’t live together.”

 

“Yes we do,” he snorted dismissively. 

 

“No we don’t,” she replied, confused.

 

Barely noticeable (well, to anyone but Molly) a little hurt look flashed across his face, and then was gone.

 

Oh. God.

 

“Wait.” Molly held up her hands. Gawping at him, eyes widening and mouth hanging even wider, “You think we live together?”

 

“Yeeeesssss,” he drew out, in his ‘ _this should be obvious, even to you’_ tone of voice.

 

“You live at Baker Street..”

 

“I work at Baker Street.”

 

When Molly continued to stare at him with her mouth moving soundlessly he offered, “I see clients there, conduct my experiments, but I keep my clothes and personal belongings here, I sleep here-”

 

“You only sleep here 3 or 4 nights a week..?”

 

“I only sleep 3 or 4 night a week.”

 

They stared at each other in silence – hers one of astonishment, his one of vexation.

 

 _What on earth was this about?_ Her heart sank a bit when the answer came to her. Maybe he’d been lonely, maybe he’d wanted company now that John and Mary were constantly occupied with baby Ellie. Despite the fact that he acted like a six foot tall toddler most of the time, he was so sweet –  in his own way – and he was so easily hurt. She couldn’t stand to see him that way, if he wanted companionship of course she would offer it.

 

“If you want a flat mate,” she began softly, “we can talk about it.”

 

“What?! There’s barely enough room here for you and I without someone else moving in. Besides, the last thing we need at this point in our courtship is a third wheel.”

 

_“Courtship?!”_

 

“Molly,” Sherlock rolled his eyes, “you’re doing that repeating thing again. Are you sure you’re not ill?”

 

Fine. She was going to have to spell it out. Again. “Are you-? You think you’re-? You’re _courting_ me?”

 

“Yes,” he replied, eyelids fluttering.

 

“But you have never even- you know- ” she waved her hands about aimlessly, “kissed me.”

 

“We’ve done more than that. For heaven’s sake woman, we share a bed.” He retorted.

 

“We sleep in the same bed, Sherlock, that’s not quite the same thing.”

 

“That’s just because we’ve been taking that aspect of our relationship slowly.” And for the first time in this whole confusing conversation he looked unsure of himself, “Isn’t it?” 

 

 _Bloody hell. If he sincerely believed what he was saying,_ Molly thought _, then yes, the pace had been slow. Glacial in fact_.

 

“But you’ve wanted to kiss me?” she ventured.

 

“Well, yes,” he said almost shyly. A faint and endearing blush on his cheeks, he looked up at her through his long, dark lashes. A mischievous expression, one that suited him well, made his eyes gleam, “There are other things I’ve wanted too.”

 

“But you don’t..do..that.”

 

His gaze never leaving hers for a second, “Correction – I didn’t do..that. Or more precisely,” he said gently and so full of love, “I haven’t wanted to. Not before you.”

 

Oh. _OH._

 

Well. When he put it like that.

 

“You know Sherlock, if you want to court a girl you should tell her that’s what you’re doing.” Involuntarily, she mirrored his playful gaze and gave him a tender smile.

 

“Okay, right. Point taken.” He grinned cheekily, all lopsided charm and cute dimples.

 

“Likewise moving in with her.”

 

“Yes. Fine. That also.” Smiling broadly still, he reached out and took her hand, pulling her from her seat and onto his lap. “But you should know that I don’t ever plan on courting other girls. Or moving in with them.”

 

“Duly noted.”

 

Her voice had dropped an octave, and her lips hovered just inches from his. Molly wrapped her arms around his neck, and looked into his eyes, “You can kiss me now if you like.”

 

And because that sounded like a very good idea (even to a genius), and because he’d waited damn long enough, that’s exactly what he did.

 

Repeatedly.

 

Thoroughly.

 

Spectacularly.

 

When they parted, breathless and flushed, Molly said, “Any other life altering decisions you’ve neglected to tell me about? Signed us up to a timeshare in Majorca? Enrolled our hypothetical unborn children in Harrow? Subscribed to a jam of the month club in our joint names?”

 

“No,” he whispered and nuzzled at her neck with his nose and lips, “nothing at all like that.”

 

“Good.” She disentangled her limbs from around him, climbing off his lap. Starting to clear the plates and glasses from the table, “I’ll get this lot in the dishwasher, and then we can discuss the other things you’ve wanted to do with me.” She waggled her eyebrows suggestively at him, and he laughed - a gorgeous rumbling sound emanated from his chest.

 

Sherlock got up from the table too. Clearing the wrappings their supper had come in and taking them to the bin outside her backdoor, it occurred to him that there was perhaps just one other thing he’d made assumptions about that she might not be entirely clear on.

 

He looked up at the starry sky above him for guidance and inspiration.

 

Nope.

 

Nothing.

 

_Hmm._

 

But in light of the conversation they’d just had, he decided to check with her anyway.

 

“Molly,” he called from outside.

 

“Yup?”

 

“You do know we’re due to get married next month, yes?”

 

She didn’t answer. But the sound of china and glass hitting the kitchen tiles, shattering into a thousand tiny pieces, told him that _yes_ , perhaps this was something else he should have mentioned.

 


End file.
